That's the title of the first book from the Tin Bath Writers Group which, if all goes according to plan should be available for the Christmas rush. The book consists of a series of short stories and poems that reflect the varied memories and experiences of the members of the group. Some pieces are reflections on real life events while others are purely works of fiction. Although the group is based in Sailortown not all its members come from that district and this is reflected in the book. Some of the book's contents have a Sailortown perspective while others do not. In general the book is as much a tapestry of Belfast life past and present. Tin Baths and Mangles is dedicated to the memory of Andy McKinney who died suddenly at the beginning of 2005 and it contains a number of pieces submitted by him
The following poem was jointly composed by the members of The Tin Bath Writers Group. As such it has no name but has come to be known as the
"Group Poem".
Where wander now the souls of Sailortown’s lost children,
Where wander now the souls of Sailortown’s lost children,
Now that the tempest has passed.
The salt on my skin tastes of tides and tears
And the sea is calm
Where voices hold me in the stillness of time.
The truth will lead us forward
And the Lord holds me in his palm
As the spire is their welcome and farewell
Where wander now those lost souls of Sailortown?
In search of magic wands
It was hard to say if this was the first time that Pat had felt a sense of loss.A real sense of loss that is. Sure enough, dozens of precious marlies had been handed over to opponents, but usually in a fair game of ringsy and, sometimes, even big hurling matches had gone the wrong way. But those things seemed trivial now and, anyway, they were occasions when Pat had felt that he had, at least, tried his best to play his part in the making of those decisions. This time, the result had been taken out of his hands and that really was a first. It would change things forever in the way that only disappointment can.
Albert had come into Pat’s life by accident. He had been allocated to the eager 13-year-old by a staff nurse at Belfast’s City Hospital. No mention of a surname, just: "There’s wee Albert in the corner, young fella, go over and keep him company".
And that is how it had begun. The friendship, almost kinship, between the eighty something pensioner, a former member of the Orange and Black, and the wee Catholic boy from the Christian Brothers’ school; two individuals, separated by culture and age, who had been thrown together by fate.
Pat remembered their first meeting as he sat in the side ward waiting for Sister to attend to him.He recalled the excitement of joining the Legion of Mary with its local Praesidium and its military style rules and regulations. Everyone at school had said that it was like being in the army with none of the dangers and all of the advantages. One simple task a week to be offered up for the holy souls in Purgatory and full access to the girls at the Sunday night dance in Derryvolgie Avenue. Even the word "Avenue" had sounded exotic and forbidden and, when Pat Drummond from the kitchen house on the big estate, heard that it was situated just off Belfast’s Malone Road, well, he promised to make the most of his new found opportunity.
Tonight, all that enthusiasm had been swept away in a welter of tears.Everything and everybody else in the ward looked the same. The big clock over the little office door read 8pm, the usual swish of nurses tidied and ministered in their angelic but businesslike manner, even old Trevor, known to everyone as Trench Trevor and who shouted "Keep your heads down, the Huns are comin" about ever ten minutes, was in the best of voice. But things had changed.
Pat kneaded the grapes in the paper bag on his lap, crushing them with a new- found anger. "Bring those into wee Albert", his mother had said: "Tell him they’re the good ones and there’s no pips to worry his false teeth about and to enjoy his Halloween."
"I wonder what she’ll say when she finds out what’s happened", thought Pat; "Some Halloween for the wee man with maybe another operation on its way."
He knew that there had been several during their time together, each one more debilitating than the last.
He waited impatiently and fidgeted with the buttons of his school blazer to pass the time, the kind of frantic fidgeting that drove even his long-suffering father to distraction on Sunday afternoons when the new television in the corner held everyone’s attention. It felt just like the first time he had visited. The nervous small talk with the wee nurse from Strabane whom he could hardly understand but who smelt like the Quickies that mother used to clean her face and had a smile that competed with the fluorescent light in the hall. The trailing of his feet in their weighty Tuff shoes as he was escorted into the main ward and led to the bedside of his new friend."Albert, this is Pat, he’s come to read the paper to you. Isn’t that great".
Albert was flat on his back, eyes staring at the ceiling and, even if he could have managed to raise himself up, the heavy cataracts, obvious and evident to all, would have prevented him from seeing more than a shadow of the schoolboy.
"Hello there Albert", Pat had said, a slight trace of that dreaded stammer coming out with his words. "How are you doin"?
The boy had waited for a reply but got only a grunt for his trouble.
"There now, Albert likes you" said Sister: "Sure you’ve made a friend for life."
She turned away about her business and was back to checking the young ones for all the mighty list of things that she said they had not done or had not done properly, while Pat waited for the old man to react.
He didn’t have to wait long.
"What sort of a name’s that? Pat, sure that’s a Fenian name", the old man’s voice was reed-thin but hit the note he wanted as well as any of the woodwind family.
"What are they doin’ sending me a Fenian?"
" I’m only here to read the Ulster for you Albert", said Pat, red in the face and desperate that no-one else should share the embarrassment of their conversation. " And I’m not a Fenian, I’m from the Legion of Mary."
The tinkle of the old man’s laughter echoed through the ward and he rose like Lazarus onto an elbow with a smile as big as a banana.
"Aye, well anyway, sit down and get reading, you can start with the Hatchet Men, how did they do at the weekend?
"Pat sat as he was bid, unfolded the football paper and asked quietly: "Albert, who are the Hatchet Men?"
"My God, they’ve sent me a comedian as well as a Fenian. Crusaders wee lad, Crusaders."
Well, that had been the start and for nearly two seasons, Pat and Albert had shared the trials and tribulations of Irish League football, the highs and lows of his Shore Road favourites and the increasing success of the old man’s beloved Glasgow Rangers.
At first, conversation had been kept to a minimum of course because Albert had explained that he didn’t talk to Fenians as a rule, but would make an exception if they kept to business. But, on more than one occasion, he had asked the boy about his schoolwork and told him to "Work hard now and you won’t have to afterwards".
Even Sister had said that two more unlikely pals she had never met.
The first Christmas, the boy had brought chocolates and a greetings card while the old man had given him a prayer tract presented to him by the hospital’s Baptist Chaplin. Pat had felt hard done by, but his mother and father had said that "the oul so and so was mellowing, if only a wee bit".
"Within the past few weeks", thought Pat: "We’d talked about all sorts of things. How the Prods had saved us all from the Kaiser, how all Prods were round shouldered from carrying Fenians on their backs for so long and how Pat had better get good grades if he wanted to make something of himself.
He remembered the long talk about Miriam, given in disjointed sentences with long pauses between some words and the rolling thunder of others as they rattled from wrinkled lips. Miriam the daughter who had played wee houses in the front garden of York Crescent. How she had laid out kidney pavers as the four corners of her home and commandeered the sweeping brush for hours on end, tending the tufts of unruly grass more gently than a Royal Avenue hairdresser. A handful of jeweled, broken glass was her dowry, he said: And the chipped remains of a wedding tea-set the fortune of babby dishes that would see her into adulthood.
Miriam had come into this world as her mother had left, with squeals and pain and the breath of torment echoing through the first and last breaths of mother and child. But Albert never mentioned Mother again. Only Miriam. Miriam who had collected the Sunday School best attendance prize at Jennymount Church, Miriam with the dark, dolly-like eyes that opened and closed in time with the music of her voice. Miriam, the child of adversity, who promised so much after so much sorrow, the wee cratur who clip-clopped across the kitchen floor in high heels four sizes too big to hand over the weakest tea in Christendom.
Pat heard the stories many times and smiled with deference at the hearing, as he had been taught at home, often with the tawse, stifling a yawn into a hankie on other occasions as if his own mother had been watching scoldingly from the bed-end. But he had listened and an ear for a lonely voice is often the best medicine.
" Miriam died", said Albert one night matter-of-factly: "Died swinging on the lamp. Hit her wee head. Even the bruise on her temple looked like a wee beauty spot when they laid her out in the Co-op parlour." Pat noticed the glaze of fluid over the old man’s cataracts but the voice held firm.
"Probably for the best," said Albert: "Nothing good ever lasts in this world".
Pat had stayed silent and waited for the old man to continue. But he changed tack so quickly that any embarrassment was swallowed by talk of his beloved football."
There’s no men in the game anymore," he said; "Not like my day. There’s too man Ginnyannes running about. Don’t’ know whether they’re blew up or stuffed, the half of them. ‘Cept for Geordie Best a course.
"Pat had laughed as his hero brought them together, as he always did. The twinkle-toed dribbler from the Cregagh Estate always managed to help them to body-swerve ‘round any differences they might have had. "
I only saw the wee man once before my oul lamps went," said Albert; " But I’m tellin’ ye Patrick, he has feet like magic wands."
They had both stared into the distance, one sightless, the other a boy guiding a man down a well-walked road and any separation was a paper wall that disappeared in laughter and exaggeration. They were Bremner and Giles and Law and Best and understanding refereed their differences.
Tonight, all that counted for nothing as the boy’s concern made even the good grapes taste sour. Less than ten minutes previously, Pat had seen Joey, Albert’s canary, being pushed to the side of Trench Trevor’s bed and not a word of explanation.
"Just sit in there and I’ll be with you in a minute", said Sister to him as she swept off like a civilian nun to raise hell in another part of the ward.
Pat’s patience broke after more than half an hour and he went to speak to the canary. "Hello Joey, Hello wee man, where’s Albert tonight then?"
"He’s dead wee lad and keep you head down, the Huns are comin’". It was Trench Trevor, who hadn’t uttered a word of sense on one single Wednesday night in nearly two years, who shouted in his loudest ARP voice.
Pat turned from the cot, with its bars pulled high, and left bird and man caged and silent. He spoke to Sister as she sailed past with an armful of bedpans.
"Oh, sorry about all this, young man", she said curtly: "Albert was buried on Monday, but you can always read to one of the others."
Pat left the hospital in a daze and resigned from the Legion of Mary the following week, without explanation. The Holy Souls would have to fend for themselves and, anyway, he had clicked at his first dance in the downtown Plaza.
But Pat had learned a bit about Prods and Fenians over the previous two years, he’d accumulated a fair amount about the Hatchet Men and, as he would realize much later, more than a little about the intricacies of human nature.
Paul McLaughlin 2003
Paul McLaughlin 2003
Tin Bath Writers Group – regular weekly meetings in Society offices, 11-13 Garmoyle Street (above bookmakers) Mondays at 7.30pm. Anyone interested in joining the group should contact Belfast 90 751094 for further details. Everyone is welcome.
source -- Sailortown Cultural & Historical Society
